Sacrilege
by Skylarcat
Summary: Oscar Vega liked to pretend that he was an opened book, one in which, he wished Angie Flynn would read.


**Title:** Sacrilege  
**Author:** Skylarcat  
**Classification:** One shot. Angie Flynn, Oscar Vega.  
**Rating**: PG 13  
**Feedback:** I don't expect much.  
**Summary:** This has been sitting on my computer, not my best, but I wanted it gone. So best way to explained this piece is, well, I guess mainly just musings.  
**Note:** Flynn and Vega are characters that do not belong to me. Yes, I have used them without permission. However, no copyright infringement is intended. And I will return them intact and a lot more satisfied.

**XXXX**

Oscar Vega liked to pretend that he was an open book. One, in which, all his thoughts and emotions were written in fine dark ink upon crisp white pages, there for anyone and everyone to read whenever desired, but the truth was he wasn't as opened as he pretended; a small part closed off, reversed for only her. He didn't even know of its existence, some void impossible for him to understand, until she had filled it. But the problem with pretending was that you started to believe the lie, the very thing you imitated, forgetting it was all propaganda, arouse to cover up who you really were, until the book slammed closed, hiding once more with it, the truth. Oscar Vega was a weak man.

He wasn't proud of that fact, staring at the shot of bourbon that sat before him, sweating a ring on the bar counter. His eyes lingered there, searching for some kind of insight, but finding none. Considering the late hour, the scene was still very much alive. The lights were dimmed, loud music blurred overhead, laughter and drunken conversations filled every corner of the bar, and he ignored it all, simply bowed his head, tracing a finger along the rim of his glass. No solace existed for wounded men, especially men who sought comfort from shot after shot, hoping that if he reached a state of complete drunkenness, that perhaps he would forget about her, the girl who left him behind.

But the truth was, his mind kept over analyzing the situation, kept playing it over and over, on slow repeat, her words still ringing in his ears, "I don't think we can go from here, maybe we shouldn't be partners anymore." And then, she simply walked away, and he allowed her to.

Maybe it was the bourbon to blame for his sudden introspection, but if he really was an opened book, then she wasn't interested in reading, and that broke his heart. The truth was, he was in love with his partner, had been for some time now. But he had kept it in the distance, binding his time until she would love him back, but then Mark Cross entered the picture, and things started to change, so he never spoke of his feelings, he just figured she knew, that it was there; an opened book.

It was funny, he never realized before, how powerful words could be. How they could conjure up all kinds of images and feelings. How they could be amazing, or deadly, depending on how they were used, or simply not used at all. It was her silence, the things she did not say, that he heard the loudest.

She was brilliant that way. Never more beautiful than when she was still, quiet. Often, he would watch her, while working on a case, she would be silent, her mind piecing together the puzzle, and he would just stare with fasciation. He always found her interesting that way, always tried to get on the inside of some invisible wall that she had built. Oscar Vega wasn't a quitter, he would have climbed and climbed and climbed until he took his last breath, but he would have made it on the inside, he would have, if she hadn't given up first.

Things between them had shifted slightly, ever since Mark Cross entered the picture, and he felt the off-balance of their partnership from the very start. She became distant, the gap between them stretching further and further apart, and at times, he felt he would need a bridge to reach her. And he would have built that bridge, if she hadn't run away, or if he had been brave enough to chase after her. She had given up on him, on them, and as far as he was concerned, that was sacrilege.

And as crazy and ridiculous as it was, he missed her. Even before she left, he missed her, missed how she used to be, missed how things between them were easy. Mostly, he missed the parts of her that Mark destroyed. How her eyes never seemed to shine as bright anymore, how her laughter became sparser, how her smile never seemed to reach quite as high, and he counted each time it occurred, and every time it did, something in his chest would retract and compress.

He picked up his bourbon and swirled the contents around in his glass, noting how the light flickered against the amber liquid, and then swallowed in one shot. It burned down his throat, the tickle of strong alcohol, of charred wood, and sticky sweetness, coating the inside of his mouth, and he gestured for another one, eager to wash away all his troubles.

He felt the pressure of her hand on his shoulder; the way her fingers pressed into where his bone meant skin, and he became still. He would know her touch anywhere, it was something that once experienced, you'd never forget, an imprint burned into the back of his mind, and he felt all the oxygen deplete in the room, his lungs close, his very last breath robbed from him, all in the touch of her hand.

She reached across him, shielding the rim of glass with her free hand, the other still planted against his shoulder, as she shook her head at the bartender, essentially cutting him off.

She leaned on her elbows across the bar, and tilted her head in his direction, her blonde curls framing her face, and in that moment, he never found her more beautiful, a sort of an invisible aura that surrounded her delicate features, and he was afraid to blink, afraid of the slightest movement, and she would be gone again.

"I think we've had enough for one night," she informed him, pushing the shot-glass away.

He felt the tension ripple throughout his body, tiny currents of energy exploding forth, as though he were a river and she, the cast stone. He rubbed a hand along his beard, careful to avoid looking at her in the eyes; instead he stared down, allowing silence to fill the void that she had left.

When she said nothing, he stood with more force than he intended, causing the barstool to scrape against the wood floor; he ignored the sound as he reached into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet. He threw the cash down on the counter, and turned, intending to leave her just as she had left him, but she reached out her hand, grabbing him on the arm, forcing him to stop and looked down at her.

"Don't be mad at me." She lifted her eyes to meet his and he could see the tears starting to build, but he didn't care. It was too late for that now; she had already rejected him, allowed Mark Cross to ruin everything they had built together.

"Why are you here, Angie?" He asked, a laugh catching in the back of his throat. "What do you want from me?"

She shrugged meekly, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, staring off in the distance. "I want to know that you are okay."

"You don't get to know that anymore," he answered, his own voice sounding harsh and cold. "You gave that up when gave me up." He turned and headed toward the door, leaving her standing there.

The pain slammed against his chest like a wrecking ball, knocking away all sense of reason. He needed to punch and shout; he needed something to distract him, to help him forget. He leaned against the cold brick wall of the building, attempting to even his breathing, his mind racing a mile a minute. He hadn't been prepared to see her, not while the wound was still so raw.

He raked a hand through his hair and kicked at the sidewalk. Angie Flynn was a fighter, she didn't give up on anything, and the one time she did, it's him that she picked.

The air outside was cold, and thrashed around him, stinging his eyes. Of course, he had forgotten his coat back at the precinct; it was only fitting, the irony. He cursed under his breath, and approached the curb out of reflex, attempting to hail down a taxi. He needed to be anywhere, but there.

Traffic was sparse, not a taxi to be seen, as he sat down on the curb, bowing his head in his hands. When had things gone so wrong between them, he pondered. Why did she feel the need to always defend Mark Cross, to always take his side, when the man did nothing to earn her loyalty, she simply just gave it to him freely, without so much as a thought, while all this time, it was him who always had her back, who was always at her side. Who, all this time, she never ever really saw. It didn't matter now, he decided, standing once more. He'd walk home.

"Vega, I'll drive," she responded, standing behind him, close enough that he could feel her breath on the back of his neck, close enough that he caught the faint scent of her perfume, close enough that his world turned upside down.

He loved her, perhaps too much, and maybe she loved him, only not enough, and that was the reality of the situation, the cold harsh reality. Maybe in another life, he would find her and prove to her that he was the man worth loving. He turned, to look at her, and caught his breath. A life without her simply wouldn't be worth living, in this lifetime, or the next

"Come on," she said, tucking her arm beneath his. And for a moment, it felt as though nothing had changed between them, as though everything was how it used to be, before Mark Cross.

She guided him to her car and as they approached, he stared at the vehicle, god, how he hated this car. It was old, with a weird smell, and it always annoyed him at how she insisted on always driving them, and as he stood there, her gripping his arm, probably for the last time, he realized he was going to miss that car.

She put the key into the ignition, and he watched as she started the car. It rumbled as it came alive, purring like a kitten, and she patted it on the dashboard, softly cooing to it, and titled her head to look up at him. "Get in, Oscar."

He didn't realize until that moment that he was still standing outside, the passenger door slightly ajar. He looked at her for a second longer, locking her features to memory; then climbed in beside her.

She drove in silence, and he didn't dare interrupt the stillness, instead he focused on the roads that stretched before them, bending and twisting in long coils. They stopped at a red light, next to empty field, and his eyes lingered along the long grass, almost not noticing the abandoned beat-up car in the darkness, but there it was; its metal beginning to rust and decay. Its exterior covered in shrubbery, long strands of grass and dirt. He wondered sadly how it got there, who had owned it prior, and what kind of existence it had before being discarded in the field.

"It's sad, isn't it?" She said, staring in the direction of the beat-up car, as though she could read his thoughts.

He nodded, somehow relating to the car, feeling its loneliness, its rejection, as if it were his own. He too, felt lost in fields of long grass and dirt, left there to waste away.

He sunk into the creases of the seat cushions, longing to be swallowed, and stared at her through the darkness. Her hands were planted gingerly along the steering wheel, her attention straight ahead. She inhaled sharply, and he watched the soft rise and fall of her chest, the even tempo of her breathing. Her eyes fluttered beneath long dark lashes, and he swore he saw a glimpse of the Angie he once knew; the fiercely intelligent, spunky detective, that at times could be a bit reckless, but she was never insensitive. He wonder if Mark Cross had broken her, took all that away from her. She turned, catching his stare, and in the darkness, her eyes appeared almost teal.

She pulled into his driveway, the headlights reflecting against his house, and before she could turn off the ignition, he climbed out of the car, shutting the door, leaving it and her behind him.

He heard her cut the engine, and the squeak of her door opening, but he kept walking, not wanting to continue this game, needing her to allow him to go.

"Oscar, wait." Her voice was faint, a mild whisper against the wind.

He whirled around to face her, to confront everything, but the bourbon and sudden movement caused him to stumble over his own feet, and she reached out her hands, grabbing hold of his shoulders, balancing him, like she had a million times before, in a million different ways. "Are you alright there, partner?"

He flinched at her words. "I would be, if the ground would stop spinning." He caught her eye and lifted his hand, trailing the back of his fingers along the scope of chin. She leaned into his touch, closing her eyes. "Partner," he questioned.

She opened her eyes and swallowed, and for a moment he was tempted to kiss her. She avoided the question, instead turned him in the direction of his house. "Let's get you inside."

She stopped just outside his front door, and turned facing him, extending her hand. "Keys."

He patted his pant pockets until he heard the faint jingle of metal, she heard it as well, and reached towards his front pocket, slipping her small hand between the folds of fabric, the thin lining doing nothing to prevent the warmth of her fingertips against his thighs. She made eye contact with him just as her hand found the keys. Pulling them out, she turned and quickly unlocked the door, stepping back to allow him to pass through first. They didn't often go to one another's homes, though you would think that over the course of five years, they would have, but that wasn't how they operated. Now that he thought about it, they barely talked on the phone, either. But then again, they practically lived at the precinct, working long hours, constantly together. They didn't have to be in each other's homes, or talk on the phone, for them to have an intimate relationship; they lived it in other ways.

She dropped the keys onto the table next to the door and switched the small lamp on. It wasn't much light, but it was enough; enough for him to notice the dark circles beneath her eyes and her smaller frame. "You want a drink," he asked, heading into the kitchen and pulling open a small cabinet.

"I didn't come here for a drink."

There was something about her tone that caused him to place the glass down and look at her. She appeared small in the light, her yellow hair almost white. "Then why did you come here," he asked, moving an inch closer to her.

"I don't know, Vega. Just none of this feels right." She looked up, catching his eye. "I guess there's nothing left to say."

A mournful laugh escaped the back of his throat. "That's funny, because I think there's everything left to say."

A hunger settled low in the pit of his stomach; then crept up to form a knot in his throat and he swallowed it down. His heart was hammering against his chest as he crossed over to where she stood, pulling her into his arms. She inhaled sharply as her eyes darted to his, and before she could protest, he covered her mouth with his, kissing her hard. He could feel her hands slide up over his arms and around his neck, and into his hair.

His tongue slipped past her lips, along the roof of her mouth, and she tasted sweet, not overbearing, just the right degree of bitterness to make him crave more. And he never wanted to taste anything else ever again. She moaned against his mouth, her fingers weaving in his hair.

He let go and stepped back and she moaned from the loss of contact. He wiped a hand over his mouth and looked at her. "I think you should go, Angie."

"Vega," she breathed, intertwining her fingers around his wrist. "What do you want me to say?"

He slammed his hand against the kitchen counter, rage building along his muscles. "What I want you to say?" He was angry now. "I wanted you to say that five years of partnership meant something to you. I wanted you to not give up on this, on me, on us." He sprawled an arm along the cabinet and leaned his forehead here, staring down at the floor. "I don't know, Angie," he whispered, "I just wanted you."

She placed her hand over her mouth, and held her other hand over it, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. He could see that she was visibly shaking, and though every muscle in his body was longing to reach out and hold her, he didn't move. "I'm so sorry, Oscar. I didn't know."

He shoved his hands into his pant pockets and stared at the floor, shrugging his shoulders. "Well now you know."

She took a hesitant step towards him, running her fingers along his jawline. "I'm here now." She pressed her forehead against his and licked her lips, her breathing falling into rhythm with his own. "I'm here now and I am not going anywhere."

He could feel the dampness from her tear-stained cheeks and reached a hand up, brushing her tears away. "I want you, Angie," he said, wrapping his arms around her waist.

She laughed softly. "I'm right here. You can have me."

He smiled, tilting his head to kiss her again. It was slow and deep and he paused just long enough to reach for the hem of her shirt, yanking it up over her head in a rush. She was gorgeous; her ivory skin flushed against the purple lace of her bra. Her breasts heaving against the fabric; her breathing deep and low, her eyes dark with desire, and he knew she was finally his.

Her fingers slipped into belt loops of his pants, tugging him closer to her, and he bent kissing her on the mouth as her fingers hastily unbutton his shirt. He stilled her hands. "We should take this to the bedroom."

She nodded as he scooped her up in his arms, carrying her into his bedroom. He laid her down, brushing a strand of blonde hair out of her eyes. His heart pounded fast within his chest, its beating like a drum. He looked down at her, knowing that when he kissed her next, his breath wedding forever with hers, time turning like the slow winding fork in the ground, he knew then that he was free. So he kissed her, and she blossomed beneath him like flower, opening her petals one by one.

He placed soft kisses along her neck, down her collarbone, and across the scope of her cleavage. His hands skated down her ribcage, marveling the feel of her delicate skin beneath the callus of his fingers, and until then, he never thought to use the word delicate to describe her.

She moaned beneath his touch, withering against the cream-colored sheets. And he never saw anything more beautiful in his life. His fingers brushed against her bra, pulling the straps down her arms, and then it was gone. And his mouth took the opportunity to explore this uncharted territory. He tasted the salt and sweat of her skin, and her nails dug into the flesh of his shoulders.

If he were able, he would have turned everything into slow motion, memorizing the feel of her body pressed against his, how her bones felt beneath her impossibly soft skin, but they had waited too long as it was, five years to many, and then everything moved in a flash. Time going by in a blur, like those scenes from the movies, where the sun would go down, and the moon would rise, and day would turn into night. A plant would sprout from the ground, bloom; then wither and die, and it all would occur in less than a minute. That's how the moment felt; if he blinked he would've missed it.

He wanted to know what it felt like to be inside her, so utterly complete. And then it was all a rush, the pulling and removing of clothes, of arms and limbs. Chaos had always been her native tongue, so it didn't surprise him that her love-making was just as fluent.

Making love with Angie Flynn was like writing poetry. The verses fell from their lips in soft kisses, each stanza formed with every gentle touch. Each sigh a new sonnet, and he never wanted to reach the end, wanted the poem to go on forever.

Afterwards, Angie nested beside him, folding her body into his. He finally closed his eyes and dreamt, for the first time in months; dreamt of that old beat-up car among the fields, dreamt of it becoming new and whole again.

The next morning when he awoke, he found that she was already gone, her side of the bed still warm, the faint scent of her still lingering. She was always like that, becoming reckless when things felt too safe, but he knew she would be back, because Angie always came back.


End file.
